And so it began
by spqr
Summary: Sandy and Kirsten, my favorite couple. How did a poor, struggling Jew from the Bronx get together with Waspy McWasp?
1. Default Chapter

A/N: Just a little backstory about Kirsten and Sandy that's been percolating. I thought it was going somewhere else, but then it just ended its bad self. Enjoy, and please review!

****

April 12, 1985:

On that night at the bar (he's sitting with his law school buddies, trying to blow off a little steam before the grind of studying for upcoming exams turns them all into zombies fueled by caffeine and little else), he decides to try and strike up a conversation with the beautiful blonde who looks so out of place, yet so absorbed in the moment, in the music. She's dressed in candy-colored clothes, just like her friends, the ones who left, loudly, a minute ago. _Who would leave a girl like that?_

Then again, he's been watching her for a while; her squealing, "Oh! My! God!"-ing friends, with their requests for drinks with names like "sex on the beach" and "buttery nipples" seemed to irritate her more and more as she quietly sipped her Corona and focused on the music. Once, when one of them drunkenly tried to explain the concept of peach Schnapps to the uncaring waitress, he thought he saw her roll her eyes. She barely acknowledged their goodbyes as they left, trailing a series of self-dramatizing exclamations like "Ew!" and "I can't believe she _wanted_ to come here!" in their wake.

So he's looking at her, and she's looking at the band--grizzled old black men pouring out their souls in this shitty bar, playing like it's the last gig they'll ever have. And judging from the state of them, it just may well be, but they're joyous, they're alive, and something in the girl's face convinces him that somehow, she's feeling that way too, as composed as she seems on the surface.

"Hey, Andrew." He nudges his buddy to the right. "Do you know that girl?" Andrew's the preppiest guy he knows; despite Andrew's impassioned defense of the poor and downtrodden in class, he figures, somewhat cynically, that it'll take about six months in the P.D.'s office before Andrew joins his father's white-shoe law firm. If anyone knows that girl, it'll be Andrew.

"What? Who?" Andrew's already had a bit to drink, and swivels around to stare at in the direction that he's trying to signal discreetly with his head. "Oh, yeah, her. She's, um...she looks familiar. Yeah, she's an undergrad, I think. She was in my little sister's sorority. Chrissy? Christy? No, no, wait...Kirsten, maybe? I think she's from Newport."

*******************************

__

Thank God they finally left! So they're mad at me, so what? They asked me what I wanted to do for my 21st birthday and I told them. It's not like we needed a place to go drink--don't they have enough peach Schnapps back in their dorm rooms? At least now I can enjoy the music in peace, without Taryn's oh-so-obvious "whispering" about the state of the bathrooms and how she "knows for a fact" that Tim scored some coke and why weren't we all at that party up in the hills at Brett's house.

She sets her beer bottle down on the now-empty table as the band takes a break. A hand grabs the bottle, and she looks up, expecting to see the waitress, but instead there's a guy. Ratty Boalt Hall sweatshirt, raggedy khaki's, and _for God's sake_, sandals. She moves her purse closer onto her lap and says, politely but stonily, "I wasn't done with my beer yet."

"I know. I can see. You still have half of it left. Unless you're one of those girls who just orders another one when the old one gets too warm. Or too flat." He smiles, blue eyes piercing under thick black brows.

__

Ohhh-kaaay. "Can I have it back, please?"

"Sure. Just let me check it for you." He takes a sip and then sighs. "Warm and flat, what a shame. Let me just get another one for you." And with that, he sits down at her table, signals the waitress, and when she arrives, he orders two Coronas. He turns to her then and says, "I'm not one to advocate alcohol abuse, but I'd advise you to drink each beer faster, and take breaks in between. If you nurse the beer, it just ends up getting...wasted." She laughs, she can't help herself, and his eyes light up as he adds, "pun not intended, but since you liked it, I've decided it's a keeper."

She sits back, and a silence falls across the table until the waitress comes back with their beers. Once the waitress is gone, she leans forward and says, "You'd '_advise_' me to drink faster? What are you, my lawyer? Or just a guy that wants to see me drunk?"

His smile is broad as he replies, "Sandy Cohen, at your service. Not yet a lawyer, although I'm on my way, and as for seeing you drunk, don't you think that can wait?"

"Wait until what?" She leans back again, suddenly uncomfortably aware that she's far from her element, alone, and wondering if she has enough cab money on her for the ride back across the bay to campus.

"Well, I don't know, but I'd say at least until I know your name. I'm trying to be gentlemanly here. And if it makes you feel any better, I think you may be distantly acquainted with my friend Andrew." He points, and she swivels her head around to see her friend Analeigh's brother Andrew sitting at the bar. Andrew waves vigorously and yells, "Hey, Christy! Sandy's a real good guy!" before he turns back to the other law students.

"I'd feel a whole lot better about you if Andrew did, in fact, know my name," she says, crossing her arms.

"See! That's something we can both agree on! _I'd_ feel a whole lot better about me if _I, _did in fact, know your name! I didn't believe him when he said your name was Christy...is it? Not that there's anything wrong with that name, but he just didn't sound so sure. So, well, what is your name?" He looks at her appealingly.

She has to smile again. "It's Kirsten. Kirsten Nichol."

"Well, Kirsten Nichol, it's very nice to meet you." He sticks his hand out to shake, and she takes it, amused and a little intrigued at his confidence. He carries himself with a mixture of brashness and disarming, self-deprecating humor, as if he knows that he's being a bit goofy and is totally OK with that; so different from the arrogant, chest-thumping boys she's grown up with, all posture and nothing inside.

The band returns to the stage, but instead of watching them, she observes her new table-mate. He's tapping on the table, sandaled feet shuffling a bit to the beat. He turns his head and she's caught, staring. His mouth turns up in a smile, and he leans over to shout above the music, "I _like_ them!" Again, she smiles; his enthusiasm is so infectious that she shouts back, "_So do I!_", even though ladies don't shout.

*********************************

The club is emptying, the band is packing up, and all he knows is that he doesn't want the night to end. Cheesy, maybe, but he wants to know everything about this girl. As the club lights come up, he says, "Hey, I don't know about you, but I could use some coffee before I drive home. How about it?"

"I...no, I think I need to get a cab back to Berkeley. It's pretty late..."

"The cabs will still be around in a half-hour! C'mon, whaddaya say? Just a coffee, a chance to talk a little? Lawyers, even lawyers in training, love to talk, you know? I've been in agony over here! Don't get me wrong, the band was great, but being rendered speechless for over an hour is making me nervous..." He realizes he's babbling a little, but keeping her with him, if only for a few more minutes, suddenly seems like the most important thing in the world. He feels as though he's hit the jackpot when she quirks an eyebrow and says, "OK, but it's your job to find me a cab after, right?"

At this point, he'd carry her over the bridge piggy-back style if it would guarantee a few more minutes in her company. But he merely smiles and says, "It's a deal! There's a coffee shop down the street" and helps her with her coat.

*************************************

She's not sure why she agreed to go for a coffee with this guy. Sure, he's charming, if a bit shaggy, but what she really needs is to get back to her dorm room and get some sleep. She's got a test on Monday, tons of slides to review. As much as she and her father differ, they share a fierce work ethic, so blowing off studying is just not her style. Besides, making straight A's in her chosen subject, the one her father despises, is her own way of rebelling. Still, she can't deny that she's enjoying talking to Sandy, until he says,

"Art History, huh? That must really piss your father off."

Instantly, she closes down._ How does he know that? Have I revealed too much? I didn't say anything about my father's disapproval; about how my mother is paying my tuition out of her own money because I chose Berkeley, and Art History, over USC and business school._ She replies with a clipped, "Yeah, it does", and even though she notices Sandy's stricken look and feels for him, she needs to get out of this conversation, this situation, _now_.

"So, I'm gonna go...call a cab. I need to get back. It was nice meeting you, and thank you for the coffee...and the beer, earlier..." She's flustered, and that makes her want to get away; away from this guy who, it seems, can read things in her that she doesn't even want to acknowledge.

"No!" he exclaims. She does a double-take, wondering if she's made a bad decision to come to the coffee shop with him in the middle of the night. What do they always say about crazies? "He was such a nice, quiet boy..." Sandy's certainly not quiet, she's been listening to him with enjoyment for the last hour, but he does seem nice, so is that good or bad? She casts a glance at the counter, where the girl who served them seems either asleep or just indifferent to what's happening.

"No!" he says again, and puts his hand on her arm. "Our deal was that I'd get you a cab. I'm gonna go over there" he gestures to the pay phone on the wall, "and do that, right now. And I'm sorry if I upset you."

She subsides back into her chair and watches as he goes to the phone, rifles through the book, and makes the call. When he comes back to the table, he says, "They asked the destination, and I just said the Berkeley campus. Is that OK? You can tell him where exactly when you get into the cab. I'll just wait until the cab gets here, OK? Is that all right? Are you all right?"

"Yeah...I'm just...it's late, and I need...I'm sorry..."

"Hey! No more 'sorry'." He leans back, looking out the window, and then says, "Here's your cab."

She stands and gathers her coat and purse. "I'm...thank you, I'm all right. You're..."

"Charming? Annoying? Both?" He looks up at her, and she feels her face soften; the social smile that's bent her mouth into an uncomfortable grimace for the last few minutes relaxes. "Both," she replies, and as she walks out the door she tosses back, over her shoulder, "I live in Griffiths Hall, by the way."

And then she's gone.

***************************************

She's rushing out the door of Griffeth Hall, head down, already mentally going over her plan for the day. A few hours at the slide library, a meeting with the Art History Students Group about the speaker they're sponsoring next month, and then back to her room to work on that paper that's due next week. She's so wrapped up in her own thoughts that she doesn't see him at first, the scruffy figure holding the leash of an even scruffier dog.

"Oh, hello!" he says. "We were just in the neighborhood and thought we'd stop by, see if you got home OK last night."

"Oh! I...hi...um, yeah, I did, thanks."

"That's good. Where are you off to?"

"I've got a lot of studying to do..."

"On a beautiful day like this? Why don't you come to the park with us instead?"

"Us?"

"Yeah, me and Che," he says, indicating the dog at his feet. Che, although missing a back leg and half of one ear, looks up at her appealingly, tongue lolling out of his mouth. "Kirsten Nichol, meet Che. Che, Kirsten." Che obligingly lifts a paw to shake and Sandy says, "He's got very good manners. I'm not sure where he learned them."

She leans down to shake the dog's paw and to hide her own smile of amusement. As she straightens up, she sees that Sandy's got the same appealing look on his face, minus the tongue lolling. She quirks an eyebrow and says, "Your dog's name is Che?"

"That's right. It seemed fitting, since I found him in the jungle in Bolivia...well, actually in the shrubbery at Tilden Park, but why quibble? Che and I are a team, like Woodward and Bernstein. Together, we're unstoppable. I'm thinking of getting us matching berets. So, the park? Some sandwiches, a bottle of wine? Che's all set, he's got his tennis ball."

"I really should study...I've got a test on Monday, and I'm supposed to meet some people later this afternoon..."

"Aw, c'mon! Che and I will have you back in time for your meeting, and you can study tomorrow."

"I'm not exactly dressed for the park..." _Why am I resisting? I couldn't stop thinking about him when I got back last night, and now here he is. What is wrong with me?_

"So go get changed. Che and I can wait--we're both very patient when we have to be, right, Che?" The dog gives a bark of agreement, and suddenly her mind is made up. "All right, OK! I'll go to the park with you...and your little dog, too. I'll be right back."

And, despite all of her fears, it was as simple as that.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Thanks for the reviews, everyone! I was clamoring for Kirsten/Sandy fics, but I thought I was the only one. I'm glad that I'm not alone, as I think they're the most fascinating couple on TV today. So here's the next installment...I intended it to go all the way up to Kirsten's college graduation, but it got away from me and so we've only gotten as far as Thanksgiving. Oh, and, I forgot to preface Chapter One with this...

Disclaimer: I own nothing, I just love.

So it began. Chapter 2:

July 3, 1985:

As the movie ends, he gets up to switch off the TV. Returning to the couch, he asks softly, "Do you want to talk about it?"

"About what?" she responds, head down, face hidden by a curtain of blond hair.

"About why you cut your trip home short by about three weeks? About why when you called last night you were on the verge of tears, asking me to come pick you up from the airport? About why you've been upset and distant all day, despite my attempts to charm you?"

She sighs heavily. "It's...it's my dad."

"Ah. The mysterious Caleb Nichol, who you never talk about. OK, so...what's the story? Or do you still not want to say? Even though I haven't met your family...yet...I know all about your kid sister Hailey, your mom, the horse you had when you were eleven--Captain Oats, right?...But your father? To me, he's still a blank slate, except for what I read in Forbes, of course."

She sighs. "Believe me, Sandy, you're much better off not knowing." Seeing his hurt look, she says quickly, "No, I mean..."

"Can I ever count on meeting him, Kirsten?" he says quietly, and all of a sudden they aren't really talking about Caleb Nichol anymore.

"Sandy, I...do we have to have this conversation now?"

Her distress is so obvious that even though he wants to continue to press her, he can't. The only thing he can say is, "No. No, sweetie, we don't. Come here." He opens his arms and she snuggles up against his shoulder with a distinctly unladylike snuffle.

Che limps up and sniffs her bare ankle, before giving a short bark and jumping onto the couch between them. She gives a tear-filled chuckle as her hand comes down to stroke the little dog's wiry fur.

"Why'd you take Che in, Sandy?" she asks after a while.

"Well. As you can see, he's a very nice dog, and handsome, in his own unique way. He's intelligent, too!" She feels him smile against her hair.

She chuckles again, a little less waterlogged this time. "Right. Handsome. Very charming, especially at three in the morning when he just _has_ to go out, but refuses to unless he's wearing his beret. And you have to get up and find it, and find your own, and stumble down the stairs..."

"Oh, don't remind me! And don't talk about it in front of him, or he'll start getting ideas."

They remain silent for a time, Kirsten still stroking the little dog. Finally, Sandy speaks again. "Sometimes, I think, we have to come to an understanding with the...creatures... that we choose to love. Che gets his beret, and his walks in the middle of the night, because he does things for me, too."

"Oh, really? Like what?" He can hear the smile in her voice now, and he's glad. Maybe he's just diverting her from the conversation that they both know they need to have, but now is not the time. He's making her happy, and that's all that matters right now.

"He got you to go to the park with me that day, didn't he? For that alone, he deserves to be treated like a king for the rest of his natural life."

She giggles, then sits up so she's looking him straight in the face. "Thanks, Sandy." She looks down at Che, and says, "And thank you. Now get up, you handsome mutt."

"Who, me? Whatever you say, darling!"

"Not you! Well, all right. You. But I was actually talking to Che..."

Later that night, Kirsten wakes to hear muffled yapping, feeling the small paws patting at her leg. Sandy mumbles, starts to get up, but she puts a hand on his chest and whispers, "No. Just tell me where the berets are."

************************************

November 28, 1985:

It's 10:30 a.m., and they're on the plane. Newport, and her family, are a half an hour away. Kirsten looks out the small window and wonders how she can possibly prepare Sandy for the Thanksgiving dinner to come.

As they come up the driveway in their rental car, she notes that he's, well, not speechless, exactly, because that would be impossible; he's the closest thing she's ever witnessed to it, though, because he can only manage to get out one sentence.

"_This_ is your house?"

She laughs, a little embarrassed. "Yeah, it's a little...much, isn't it?"

They're standing in the massive foyer of a Newport mansion bigger than any space he thinks he's ever been in, up to and possibly including Madison Square Garden. "Sweetie, I know you told me your family was rich, but _this_..."

"It's just a house, Sandy!"

"Well, yeah! So is Buckingham Palace!"

"C'mon, I want you to meet my mom. I'm sure she's already in the kitchen."

She takes his hand and leads him through rooms...rooms filled with...stuff, lots and lots of stuff, until they arrive in the kitchen, which is surprisingly small and cozy. There's a woman there, impeccably turned out in a designer sweatsuit, hair just so, yet wearing a frumpy apron and chopping vegetables.

"Mom!"

"Kirsten! Oh, honey, I'm so glad you could make it after all!" The two women embrace; Sandy's hanging back a little, because he's not exactly sure that Kirsten told her parents he was coming. He never really knows what kind of information flows between her and her family members that he's not privy to, because, even after all these months, she's still a little stand-offish about things like that. But then the older woman breaks the embrace with her daughter, looks directly at him skulking in the doorway, and says, "And you must be Sandford."

He advances into the kitchen. "Yes, ma'am. I am. But I'd prefer it if you would call me Sandy..."

She takes his hand, and says warmly, "I will. And you shall call me Rosemary. My daughter has told me so much about you! I'm looking forward to hearing all about your fascinating extracurricular work among those less fortunate."

__

Is it wishful thinking, or does he see a twinkle in her eye as she says that?

"So, Mom, I'm just going to get Sandy settled in the guest room, and then I'll come back down and help you."

"Oh! Oh, dear, no! Please... you don't have to do that! You and your friend should go out--show him what there is to do in Newport."

Kirsten mutters under her breath, so only Sandy can hear, "Oh, yeah. Because there's so much to do here." To her mother she asks, somewhat anxiously, "And Dad? Is he here?"

"No, dear. He's at the office. He'll be back for dinner."

As Sandy carries his small suitcase into the guest bedroom, he asks her, "So, what do you guys do around here for fun? Tan, wax, surf? Hey, I could get into surfing!"

"Sandy!" She usually says his name in a loving, but exasperated tone, but now there's an undercurrent of tension.

"What? I can swim! I can fit in with the Richie Riches of the world! Oh, I get it. It's your father, right? The great Caleb Nichol, deigning to have dinner with his family because his daughter's finally come home, bearing a boyfriend."

"I'll have you know, I've come bearing boyfriends before!"

"Oh! Oh, yeah, Jimmy...remind me why he's not your boyfriend anymore?"

She looks straight at him, then, and says, quietly, "Because he's not you."

__

Later that afternoon:

Kirsten thinks this visit home is going pretty well, considering...c_onsidering my dad's not home from the office yet_...She's in the dining room, setting the table, while Sandy and her mom are in the kitchen, "making magic happen", as Sandy so airily put it. She hears the front door slam and her father call, "I'm home!" She's suddenly so terrified that the silver she's been arranging tumbles from her shaking hands with a clatter.

Caleb strides into the dining room and hugs her. "Kiki! Good to see you home!" He holds her out at arms length, taking in her outfit, lovingly put together with the help of some of her more thrift-store savvy Art History friends. "What on earth are you wearing? You look like a bag lady!"

"Cal, I think she looks perfectly lovely!" says Rosemary, coming into the dining room with her arms full of serving dishes. "It's the hallmark of the truly stylish that one can put together anything and wear it with grace and class." Kirsten flashes a small, grateful smile at her. Over her mother's shoulder, she can see Sandy hanging back a little, a questioning look on his face. She motions for him to enter.

"Dad, I'd like you to meet my...friend, Sandy Cohen. Sandy, this is my dad, Caleb."

Sandy advances, holding out his hand. "It's nice to meet you, sir. Kirsten's told me a lot about you."

Caleb gives Sandy the once over before shaking his hand. "Really? She hasn't said anything to me about you. But then, there are a lot of things Kiki doesn't tell me anymore," he adds pointedly as he sits down at the table. "Where's Hailey?"

"Here I am, daddy!" the younger girl announces as she slides into her chair. As they begin passing the serving dishes, Hailey pipes up again, "Hey, daddy, did you know that Mr. Cohen has a three-legged dog? Isn't that cool?"

Caleb looks at Sandy. "Three legs, huh? What, you couldn't afford a whole dog?"

__

This is how it will be. Kirsten can already feel the familiar headache begin, right behind her eyes. Sandy coughs a little as a sip of water goes down the wrong way, and then replies smoothly, with a perfectly straight face, "Well, sir, you're right. The pet store is still holding his fourth leg as a deposit. I wanted to leave my watch instead, but you know businessmen. They drive a hard bargain, always keeping their eye on the bottom...leg, so to speak." He continues to eat, calmly, giving Caleb an affable smile. "The dog seems OK with it, and I can still get to class on time, so it's a win-win situation."

Both Caleb and Kirsten are staring at Sandy, open-mouthed. Rosemary coughs delicately into her napkin and then segues in her best social fashion. "Cal, Sandy is third-year law at Boalt Hall. Kirsten tells me he's very bright."

"That's right, dad! Sandy's really doing well! He already has an internship lined up for next summer that could turn into a permanent job, and he's been making a lot of important contacts!" The minute the words leave her mouth she wants to take them back, remembering where, exactly, it is that Sandy will be interning. But it's too late, Caleb has honed in on her words, her desperate-to-please tone, and has turned to Sandy again.

"Well, that sounds promising, er...Sandy, is it? What firm? Anyone I know?"

__

Shit, shit, shit! She kicks Sandy's ankle under the table, and feels his hand come down reassuringly on her thigh as he says, "It's at the Alameda County Public Defender's office. It's really a great opportunity. I was the first one they offered it to, since I worked in Boalt's legal clinic last semester as a Spanish translator. It's amazing what some prosecutors think they can get away with just because the defendant doesn't speak much English."

Even though Kirsten feels a full-fledged migraine coming on, she can't help but admire the way Sandy's shut her dad down twice in five minutes, without losing his temper. His hand is still on her thigh, under the table, warm and comforting.

"I think it's very admirable that a boy with Sandy's abilities would put them to use in the service of those who have had limited opportunities. Don't you, Cal? All of us with talent, or money, should aspire to do the same." Rosemary's brought out the velvet glove with the steel inside, and for that, Kirsten is thankful.

Somehow, Thanksgiving dinner finishes with no further skirmishes, but Kirsten senses the night's not over, not by a long shot. As she helps her mother clean up the kitchen, she can hear her dad invite Sandy into the den for a brandy.

"Mom?"

"Yes, honey?" Rosemary turns, a dishcloth in her hand.

"Do you...like...Sandy?"

"What do you mean, honey? Of course! I like all of your friends."

"No, I mean..._I_ like Sandy...a lot. I think I love him, mom," she finishes, wondering why admitting this should make her feel like crying.

"Oh, honey! Come here." She folds Kirsten into a hug and then says, softly, "It's a difficult thing, being your own person with your own feelings, isn't it?" Kirsten nods into her mother's neck, not trying to hold back the tears now. She continues, "I like this boy, and since you've been brave enough to bring him home, I don't have to guess how much he means to you." She pulls away slightly and looks Kirsten straight in the eye. "Your father is a difficult man, but I love him. And you know what?" Kirsten shakes her head. "He loves me, too. There are some things I don't _like_ about him, mind you, and I'm sure he would say the same about me, but that's not the same thing, now, is it?"

"No, I guess not..."

"Your father was already well on his way to becoming what he is today when we met, Kirsten. But listen to me. He came from nothing, and no amount of money and power that he accrues could make him, or anyone else of our generation, forget that. I know my father never did. That's why..." she hesitates, trying to put her thoughts into words, "that's why he's..."

"Such a controlling bastard?" Kirsten can't help herself, although she can't believe these words are coming out of her mouth. "That's why he sucked up to Jimmy? Thought he was my 'perfect match', because Jimmy's family has been in Newport since there _was_ a Newport? That's why Sandy will never be good enough?"

Rosemary sighs, and says, "Honey, for your father, no one will ever be good enough for you."

"Mom, _that's_ not good enough for me! Sandy's a good man! He makes me laugh! He's kind, and smart, and different from anyone I've ever met. He _gets me_, mom!"

"I know, honey...I know he does. I can see it in his eyes when he looks at you. But honey, you have to make sure that _you _know what it means to..." she looks a little uncomfortable with the choice of words, "..._get him_, too. It's not enough that _he_ understands _you_. If you want to make this work, you both have to take a long hard look at who each of you are, at the core."

*********************************

After her mother and father have gone to bed, Kirsten and Sandy sit outside in the still-soft late November air. "So," she ventures, "how did the after-dinner talk with my dad go?"

"I'm still reeling a little from the brandy, I think."

She smiles, slightly, and says, "Way to misdirect, counselor."

"OK. Not exactly well. He asked me if I was Jewish, as if the 'Cohen' part of my name wasn't enough of a tip-off."

"And you said...?"

"I said, 'Yes I am, and don't go talking shit about God's chosen people'!" She can feel his smile in the darkness.

"You did not!"

"Yes, I did! I said, 'Whether you like it or not, we run everything! We always have! We work behind the scenes!'" A pause, and then, "No, sweetie, I did not say that. I simply agreed that Cohen was, indeed, a Jewish name, and waited for his reply."

"And what was it? His reply, I mean?"

Sandy leans over to kiss her as he murmurs, "He didn't have one. I got him to shut up one more time."


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: Ow! Those damn pitchforks are sharp! Put down the weapons and back away slowly, muchtvs and romie, at least for now. 3rd and final chapter. I'm not making any promises, mind you, but there may be another trilogy in the works that takes up where this leaves off. And, apologies in advance for the (maybe?) heavy handed baseball metaphors. All of the Aw! of the finale coupled with the baseball season hiatus just clouded my brain.

Disclaimer: I don't own. I just love.

****

And So It Began: Chapter 3

December 27, 1985:

"Kirsten, Kirsten...slow down a minute, OK? What's going on?" Sandy's got the phone tucked into his neck as he tries to simultaneously pack for their trip and make some sense out of the sob-filled voice on the other end of the line.

"Sandy, I can't...I can't go on our trip. My dad's got some...thing, a business thing, on New Year's Eve, and...he says I have to be here."

"What?! Kirsten, we planned this trip! The mountains, the skiing...what do you mean you can't go?"

"Sandy, he's my dad..."

Suddenly, he's very, very angry. He's not sure whether his anger is directed at her or at Caleb, but he can't stop to figure it out now. "Kirsten! Damn it! When are you gonna stop saying 'how high?' every time he asks you to jump for him? He does it for sport, just because he knows he can! And you let him, you practically beg for it, because it's the only attention you ever get from him! One word from him, and now there's all this drama...it's like you don't even matter, like _we_ don't matter!"

"Sandy, I can't." There's steel in her voice, reminiscent of her mother at Thanksgiving. "I just can't. Not right now. If you love me, you'll understand."

"I _do_ love you, but I _don't_ understand! Kirsten, I...can't you see what he's doing to you? To us?"

"I have to go, Sandy. I can't have this conversation any longer." A pause, and then she says hesitantly, "Will I see you at school? After New Year's?"

Sandy can't help himself. "You tell me, huh? Or maybe I can expect a call from Caleb?" He continues nastily, "It's his call, right?" and slams down the phone. He takes the small ring box out of his pocket and, for a brief moment, contemplates how satisfying it would be to throw it right out the window. He can't do it, though. That would be admitting that something had permanently changed, that it was truly over.

She sees him around campus, some, that winter, Che hopping along behind him. He hasn't called, and she doesn't have the courage. She throws herself into her studies, getting wrapped up in details that are value-neutral. As long as she doesn't think about herself, about Sandy...as long as she focuses on her classes, she can hold it together. That's the way she gets by.

As for him, he sees her, too, from a distance, rushing by, in a series of more outlandish thrift store outfits. She's cut her hair; what was once a smooth fall of blonde has morphed into a ragged mop, streaked with pink. He hopes that means something, but he's not exactly sure what he hopes that means. He doesn't call.

****

May 1, 1986:

When Kirsten opens her door to head off to the library, she finds a small, bedraggled looking bouquet of wildflowers tied with a ribbon, hanging off of the doorknob. There's also a flier rolled up and stuck among the flowers. As she unrolls it, she sees it's familiar; they've been up all over campus for the last week--The annual May Day march for worker solidarity. As she glances down at the bottom, she sees a handwritten note: "We've missed you. Meet us at Cody's at 3?" She knows instantly who it's from; the flier alone would have told her, never mind the fact that she recognizes the familiar printing at the bottom from countless other notes, although unlike the ones that she's carefully hoarded all these months, this one doesn't have an S. or a crudely drawn dog paw print as a signature.

As she approaches the bookstore, her hands begin the unconcious twisting that they do when she's nervous. She briefly considers just not showing up, but in her heart she knows that's not fair to Sandy, nor to herself. She enters, wondering just where in the vast expanse she might find him.

__

Law books? No, he's probably had enough of those. Art History? Is that being too presumptive? Popular magazines? As nervous as she is, she laughs to herself. _Since when does Sandy read magazines, except for maybe The Nation?! _She tries to think...last year, May Day...and suddenly she knows just where to go. As she enters the History section, she sees him sitting on the floor, seemingly engrossed in what she knows is a copy of Howard Zinn's _A People's History of the United States._ Only the fingers of his left hand, tapping a jerky rhythm on his knee, betray his nervousness. Che's sitting quietly by his side, but when he sees her he lets out a joyous little bark and puts his paw on Sandy's leg to get his attention.

Sandy looks up and smiles at her under his mop of hair. "Kirsten!" His relief is evident. As she sits down next to him, Che limps over and licks her hand, tail wagging. She pets the little dog, saying quietly, "Hi, Sandy. How...how have you been?"

"Oh, you know...I'm...what about you? You look...different. I mean, uh, beautiful, but, you know, different."

She glances down at her outfit, runs a hand absently through her cropped hair. "Yeah, I...teenaged rebellion, I guess. Too little, too late, huh?"

"Aw, hon--, Kirsten, it's never too late, is it?"

"I don't know. Maybe..." She fiddles a little with the fringe on her sweater, takes a deep breath, and then looks up at him. "Why did you want to meet, Sandy?"

He says simply, "I've missed you. Every day, since December, I...I can't tell you how many times I've picked up the phone and then put it down..."

"No, I should have called you. It's just...you're right about my dad, Sandy. I can see it so clearly now, but I don't know what to do. He's my dad. I love him."

"_I_ love _you_," Sandy says quietly.

"I know..."

"There's a 'but' coming, isn't there? Kirsten, I never wanted for it to come to a point where you had to choose between me and your father. I don't like the man, I don't like the way he treats you, but none of that matters...I would spend a lifetime of teeth-clenched smiling if it meant you and I could be together." 

"You deserve better than that, Sandy. We both know it. Please...I can't ask you for that. It's too selfish."

"Playing the martyr doesn't suit you, Kirsten. We can make this work, I know it. You know it, too." He can feel his frustration building, hear the barely concealed anger in his words. Of all the things he wants to feel right now, anger is not one of them, but he can't make it go away.

She's crying now, silent tears tracing their way down her face. "I've got to get away, Sandy. From everyone; from everything. As soon as school ends, my friend Sarah and I are going away."

"Sarah? Lives-in-a-mail-truck, won't-touch-her-trust-fund Sarah?"

Through her tears, she sniffles a laugh at the characterization. "Yeah. Two vagabond princesses in a mail truck. I don't know who I am anymore, Sandy. I don't know if I ever have. I have to go...I'm sorry..." She gives Che a last pat, stands up, and rests her hand in Sandy's hair. "Goodbye, counselor. I'm counting on you to save the world."

"Kirsten, don't..." he struggles up from his sitting position, but she's already vanished down the aisle and out the door.

At the very least, knowing that she's gone, he can control the wild beating of his heart every time he sees a blonde woman on the street. Cold comfort.

****

June 19th, 1986:

When the phone rings, he's staring off into space. He picks up, saying automatically, "Alameda County P.D., Sandy Cohen speaking. How can I help you?"

"Sandy?" The female voice is unfamiliar.

"Yes, ma'am. Who am I speaking to please?"

"Sandy, it's Rosemary, Rosemary Nichol. Kirsten's mother? I know I shouldn't bother you at work, but I remembered our conversation from Thanksgiving, and I had hoped that I could reach you there."

Sandy feels a sudden surge of dread. "Mrs. Nichol! Is it Kirsten? Has something happened to her? What...? Why are you calling me? What is it?" He waits for the worst. Car accident? Murdered at a rest stop?

"No, oh no, nothing bad. I'm sorry, dear, if I gave you that impression." Sandy breathes a little easier, knowing that, whatever is to come, it doesn't involve death or injury.

"OK, Mrs. Nichol, why are you calling?"

"Dear, I told you to call me Rosemary, and the reason that I'm calling is because my stubborn daughter will not. She's got entirely too much of her father in her, if I can say that without being indiscreet." She laughs gently, and then continues, "She's sent me postcards, from her trip. She and her friend made it all the way up to Vermont. Can you imagine?!"

Sandy doesn't have a clue where this is heading, but true to his lawyer training, he prompts, "Vermont, huh? I hear there are a lot of cows up there." He wants to hear more, wants to know why Rosemary Nichol has picked up the phone to find him.

"Oh, yes, I believe there are." She pauses, and then says, carefully, "Sandy, I know it's not my business to interfere, but I felt that I had to tell you that I'm very close to my daughter. She's told me what happened, about the trip, and after, and between you and me, if I may be so bold, she's being a damn fool. And so are you."

"I'm not sure what you mean, Mrs...uh, Rosemary."

"Ultimatums and words spoken in anger are _not _the ways in which relationships are built, young man," she responds tartly.

"Mrs....Rosemary, I want it on the record that I did not give Kirsten an ultimatum. I merely said that her father makes her jump through hoops. I'm sorry, I know he's your husband, but he does. And I couldn't stand to see her bow to his whims, when they're clearly so arbitrary."

"No offense taken. But surely you see that my daughter is in a difficult position, whether or not you placed her there, and I don't for one minute think that you did. She loves you, Sandy, but she loves her father, too. Do you love her?" She laughs gently again and then continues, "You really have brought a breath of fresh air to this family. I truly cannot believe I've just asked you such a rude and intrusive question."

All he can think to answer is, "Yes, I love her."

"That's what I thought. Even though I've only met you once, Sandy Cohen, I do believe I've learned some lawyering skills from you. Never ask a question to which you don't already know the answer, correct?"

For the first time in many months, he can feel himself smile. "Yes, ma'am."

Her voice turns brisk, the Newpsie leader coming out. "So. You love her. She loves you. Any questions?"

He stops smiling then, and says somberly, "Just the one. You know."

"Caleb?"

"No, we can get through that, I think. If there's a we, Kirsten and I. But I don't know..."

"Never underestimate the power of a mother lion, Mr. Sandy Cohen. She'll always do what's best for her family. This mother lion is no exception."

****

July 4, 1986:

Tilden Park, the annual picnic that the P.D.'s office holds. Parents, foster parents, children, social service workers and the lawyers who serve them, their defenders and protectors, all brought together. The smell of grilling meat is in the air; people are mingling, chatting, cups of punch in their hands. Sandy's coaching second base for the kids' team. He scoops up a kid who has enthusiastically run herself right past second into the outfield and deposits her safely on the base. When he looks up, he spots her. She's standing on the outskirts of the crowd, nervously clutching her hands together in a gesture he knows well.

As he jogs over to greet her, he rubs his suddenly sweaty palms on his shorts. He comes to a stop, a safe distance away, and says, "Kirsten. Hello."

"Hi, Sandy." She comes a little closer, and he backs up, trying to keep space between them.

"So, how was your trip?" He despises himself for the awkward small talk, for his mingled fear and hope at her sudden appearance.

"Oh, you know...well, I guess you don't....um, good. It was good."

"Good." After an awkward pause, they both begin to speak at once.

"I've had a lot of time to think, Sandy, and I--"

"Kirsten, what do you w--"

They both stop speaking, and then Kirsten blurts out "Sandy, I love you." She stops short, and then adds quietly, "I just wanted you to know that."

At that moment, the child Sandy had helped earlier yells, "Mr. Cohen! Should I run now?"

He turns to see the boy at bat hit one directly towards the first baseman. It's an easy out, and having earlier witnessed her enthusiasm for flight he yells back, "No, sweetie! Stay on base! You're doing great right where you are!"

He doesn't even have time to turn back to Kirsten before she's crossed the distance, and he can feel her presence, warm and strong against his back as she wraps her arms around him from behind. Her words, although spoken quietly, sound in his ears as loud as any stadium announcement. "I haven't exactly figured out who I am, Sandy, but I know who I want to be. And I know that I can't be that person without you." And as he watches, the first baseman goofs the catch; the boy rounds first. When he gets to second base, he takes the girl by the hand and together they run past third, and then reach home. 


End file.
